Time Bleeds Seconds
by Amanda1
Summary: What does time mean to the dead? Grissom narrative, booya.


Time Bleeds Seconds

Time Bleeds Seconds   
By Amanda

I measure time in sunrises. Sunsets and everything after are fuzzy, vague, a distant scream of sound and images just barely out of the mind's peripheral vision. I fear what I can not remember. Waking with blood-stained hands, tasting it like bitter copper, feeling it dry and crust on my clothes-- ...that has taught me to fear what my body does when my mind refuses to cooperate. Sunrises bring awakening, allow thought and feeling for another few hours. Time.... There is only meaning in sunrise and sunset. I used to keep track, count them off simply to know how many passed. I forget when I stopped bothering. Most likely when the weeks became months, or when the sunsets began to come faster. 

I measure time in seasons. The minutes and hours mean nothing, less than nothing, but the seasons can yet hold a city in their fickle hands. As cursed and isolated as this place is, it is victim to summer heat and spring rains, winter's fierce bite and fall's slow death. I enjoy the fall, as much as I am allowed to enjoy simple things. The winter is so cold, colder than death itself, and the snow forces me underground for months on end. I despise it down there, in closed, dim tunnels, and I fear for my sanity then more than ever. Summer's sweltering heat is the opposite curse, but a curse still. The creatures are more active. The eternal stench of decay is sharper in the summer heat, nearly unbearable. Spring rains. Constantly. Fall is not nearly as vicious. A lovely metaphor as well; watching the slow death of plants and feeling the world's life drain away...makes me question why I have not allowed death to take me yet. I've not seen my reflection in ages, I fear what I must look like now. A body waiting patiently for a soul to accept death. An eternal fall. I never quite reached winter; I've still too much dying left to do. 

I measure time in corpses. The city belongs to the Cold Ones--...to US. The word is US, not "them". Reputations are infamous, and the merest hint of ruins and monsters attracted every half-witted treasure hunter and demon-killer for hundreds of miles around. Pity more of them do not believe the tales of monsters and demons their mothers told them from the cradle. One or two every few months, sometimes a half dozen in a few weeks, as near as I can estimate weeks and months now. Most of them are dead long before I ever see more than bloody pieces of them, or their fresh, shambling corpses. And God help me, I've murdered my share of them. Some of them I can not remember slaying, there's too much I can not remember these days.... But others I've met with a clear head. And I murdered them. I can not regret murdering them, and that makes my heart ache far more than the terrible deed. 'Tis a matter of life and death. Unlife and death, rather. They would slay me, and I will not amiably guide a sword to my neck. The rest of the time...well... Lea Monde has her reputation to keep. If a man leaves here alive, a hundred more will come upon hearing his tales. I used to wish for human contact, even tried to reason with them a few times. Being driven off with a slashing sword and "MONSTER!" screaming in my ears was quite effective in killing any reluctance I had to follow Lea Monde's murderous suggestions. Their corpses still scream "monster", over and over in my mind until I hear nothing else and I wish I'd allowed them to slay me. One day I will. 'Tis a promise I've repeated often, but I will. I will. 

I measure time in memory. On the most terrifying of night, through the loneliest of days, I can conjure up memories of life and force my lips into a smile for a moment or two. Expressions do not come naturally any longer, but the smile is one of the few that linger. The mere thought of Duane's antics in our childhood can conjure it for a moment, or of good times in the Blades or the pleasant moments that have stayed with me. Even sorrowful memories are bearable; feeling sadness twist its tendrils around my heart is a far sweeter pain than empty days and lost nights. Memories are some of the precious few things left to me now, and I indulge until I want to laugh or cry for any reason other than the wretched burden fate has placed on me. A man clinging to a cliff face might know how dearly I cling to those memories. He would know the agony of losing even a grain, slipping that much more, losing something that can never be recovered or replaced. I've forgotten Duane's eye colour. I remember every time he teased me or beat me, the hours of blade practice I inflicted on him, the look on his face the day of his wedding....and I cannot remember, for the life of me, what colour his eyes were. How long until I cannot remember the sound of his voice, his face, the years we grew up together? And after that? Perhaps the rest of my life will follow, the names and faces I've known, and then my own name. Would I give up this body before that happens? No, I doubt that. Madness will take me long before I'm aware I've forgotten. 

I measure time in emotion. Acceptance of death is a process, or so I have been told. Emotions take their turn. I'd always considered it a blatant lie to ease the hearts of those unable to handle a loved one's death. And it is. The feelings never quite die, or I have not allowed them to. I was confused, I denied. I was afraid, angry, sorrowful, uncaring, roughly in that order. I remain confused. I've continued to deny when the mood takes me. Fear, sorrow, and apathy all take turns, though the latter seems to be a permanent resident. They come and go in cycles, perhaps for no reson at all. It is better that they do. Apathy is worse by far. 

I measure time in prayer. I--....I used to measure time in prayer. Every morning and evening, give thanks to God for what He had provided and for the strength to face what tomorrow would bring. God bless and keep as long as thou shalt live. Such things from the cold lips of a corpse was nothing short of blasphemous, a pointless exercise. And yet I recited every prayer I knew, as if I expected one of them would open the gates of Heaven. I used to measure time in prayer. If God has chosen not to take my soul, I do not believe he would notice the absence of another grovelling, pleading prayer. 

I measure time in decay. Mind and body, both are quite capable of wearing away to nothing. Lea Monde preserves its corpses remarkably well, but nature nips away at the flesh more with each passing day. Whatever magicks hang in the air, the can only stall the inevitable. Oh, but 'tis only the flesh they bother preserving to any degree. The mind is consciously worn away, subtle as the sea on a shore. It laughs because I believe myself sane. Sometimes I laugh with it. The stench of rot always seems sharper then.


End file.
